sing me to sleep
by nishikis
Summary: She's always been chasing after an impossibility. akira/amon, one-shot.


**a/n: it's the first day of spring break, tokyo ghoul root a is complete and utter shit, and i'm still amon/akira trash. at least try to enjoy yourself.**

* * *

The day of her father's funeral, Akira wears white.

_How disrespectful_, she hears the onlookers murmur, swathed in heavy black wool, medals and brooches gleaming from their breast pockets. _Who does she think she is?_

But she pays them no mind, tilts her head to the sky and twirls the white lily between her fingertips. The wives of the bureau head are sobbing into their handkerchiefs behind her, but she ignores them, too.

Her grieving had been brief but intense, hours of staring at her dinner table with that gnawing feeling of guilt. _You madman, you freak_ ringing through her mind, she'd hug her knees to her chest and rock back and forth, just like her father had always done.

_You're gonna be strong, just like your mama,_ he'd croon. _Promise me, Akira. Promise me you'll be strong?_

Her nails dig into her palms._ I'm so weak, Dad. So weak._

The grieving was for him, not for the neat rows of his comrades standing at command beneath the stormy skies, entire legions of men who only knew him as _quinque maniac_, not as_ Dad, I'm bleeding through my underwear _or Dad, _I got an A this semester _or _oh God, Dad, I'm so alone._

So she pretends.

Akira swallows back a gulp and approaches his casket. Kureo Mado looks so shrunken in death- cold, hollow, sunken. Exhaling shakily, she places the lily on his chest and leans in to press a kiss to his cold, cold cheek.

"I'm sorry. I broke my promise," she whispers as her hair falls against his forehead, steps away and closes the coffin with a soft thud.

A gunshot goes off, and everything is silent.

* * *

He visits her father often, the man with the gray eyes and clumsy hands.

Amon Koutarou, she soon learns, his name like a death sentence upon her lips. Her father's last partner.

Amon Koutarou, the last person to see her father. Amon Koutarou, all knife-sharp creases in his slacks and steely eyes, the reverence as he strides through the halls; _top of the academy and senior investigator by twenty-seven, _they all whisper, like a mantra. Polished and groomed, poised for success- everything her father hadn't been.

Somewhere deep inside her, she resents him. Resents this perfect, perfect being who couldn't save an old man's life.

But more than anything, Akira blames herself.

He sweeps all around her father's grave, often doing more harm than good, and replaces her wilted flowers with fresh ones. (They change every week, depending on what's on sale at the florist's.)

This week, it's carnations. Akira clutches her bouquet close to her chest as he kneels down and, his hands clasped into prayer, and begins mumbling words she can't quite hear. Something about the cases he's been working on, a skirmish with another division, Kureo's favorite meat bun stand shutting down.

Listening to his fumbling words, Akira makes a vow.

_I'll catch up to you, even if it's the last thing I do._

* * *

"Your new partner, Amon Koutarou."

Shinohara shows her his file. He looks much more intimidating on paper, his lips pulled taut, eyebrows knit together in a sharp v.

Akira knows she's supposed to see a monster- ruthless, invincible, ready to strike. But instead, she sees a patient man, the one who sweeps her father's grave, leaves behind the musk of cheap cologne and a bouquet of flowers, talks of meat buns and new leads with a telltale glimmer in his eyes.

She's growing far too attached to him, she knows, the strange man she's never even met.

_Empty hands and full heart._

_Don't get ahead of yourself, Akira, _she tells herself. _He's the enemy, remember?_

Akira traces a finger across his image, burns the planes of his face into her mind. "Understood."

* * *

Amon is flustered by her, but that's all part of the plan. She revels in her power whenever her well-placed quips and jabs to his ego hit their mark, send him blushing and stammering for dear life, imagines crushing him beneath her high heel.

It's almost enough to make her like the poor guy.

(Really, he just might do it.)

"Hey, Akira," he says, following her down the hallway. "Wanna get lunch? Me and Seidou are gonna grab some udon, and I was wondering-"

Akira's lips curl into a smirk. "Sorry- low-carb diet. You understand, right?" Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she strides away, hips swishing, her shoes clacking all the way down the hallway.

It feels good, to have a hapless man wrapped around her little finger.

(If only she knew just how much.)

* * *

Amon glances up from his maps for the first time in forty-five minutes. "Hey, could you get me-?"

"Coffee, one cream, two sugars," she rattles off, and eases to her feet, stretching her arms above her head. "I'm on it."

"Akira," he starts, and clears his throat. "Thank you."

The pure sincerity in his eyes makes her glance away. She coughs delicately into her fist. "Don't be stupid."

The day after, when it's 2 AM and they've been working overtime and she can barely pry her eyes open, she returns to her desk to find her favorite energy bar tucked into her sweater pocket.

Akira rolls her eyes. "_Idiot_."

_Don't make me fall in love with you_, she thinks, and tosses it into the trash can.

* * *

The first time she sees him fight, Amon is ruthless- an unstoppable hurricane of sheer power, a force of unbridled fury and feral intensity, the ripple of the muscles beneath his gray suit and the metallic flash of his quinque in the streetlight, and all Akira can do is watch.

Ever since she'd joined the academy, her aim had always been precision and perfection. _Mado the Machine_, her classmates had even called her- her technique flawless, her movements lean and lithe and immaculate.

Amon possesses no such thing- he's jerky and reckless, makes countless blunders and comes dangerously close to the sharp spikes of the ghoul's kagune, but remains unfazed, composes himself and and strikes back ten times harder, his teeth gritted, lips bared in a snarl.

There is beauty in imperfection, Akira learns- and it is Amon Koutarou.

When Amon finally defeats the ghoul, slicing it cleanly in half, he stumbles backwards and collapses against the brick wall. The spell broken, Akira runs up to him and shakes his shoulder. "Amon? Can you hear me?"

He opens his eyes and smiles feebly at her. His suit is splattered with blood, and he looks completely drained, pallid with heavy bags under his eyes. "You okay, Akira? Are you hurt?"

"He would've gotten me if you hadn't stopped him," she murmurs. "Thank you."

_What happens when you're not there to protect me?_

_What happens when you leave me, too?_

* * *

The first time they get drunk together, they're at a gala, the sort the higher-ups throw to appease the CCG's many wealthy sponsors, one that all of the investigators were obligated to attend. Considering how much they splurged on this stupid party (quail eggs- fucking _quail eggs_), it's a mystery why they can't afford better coffee.

Oh well. At least there's free drinks. If anything, she can get drunk and not have to think about this tomorrow morning- might as well get her money's worth, right?

While the other investigators and their wives or girlfriends bob awkwardly across the dance floor, dressed in their finest attire, Akira sips at her smoky whiskey, having made it her personal mission to drain the bar. And apparently, she realizes with a stab of irritation, so has Amon.

When he notices her glaring daggers at him, he shrugs. "Dancing isn't my thing."

"Well, yeah," she scoffs. "You're an oaf."

He barely suppresses his smile. "I'm your superior, you know. You could stand to be a little more polite. If I went up to Arima right now-"

"You wouldn't dare," Akira retorts. "I refuse to waste my breath. When we're on the battlefield, it's all the same, isn't it? Rank doesn't mean a thing to ghouls. "

Amon sips at his drink. "You really are your father's daughter."

That sobers her up right away.

This man- he has no right to talk about her father that way.

"I'm sorry," he says hastily. "That was thoughtless of me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Akira says scathingly. "It's not like I-"

The music changes abruptly, from the faint buzz of pop music to a slow, swaying love ballad. Amon hesitates, before downing the rest of his drink, slamming the glass to the counter, and clambering off of his stool. He offers a hand to her. "May I have this dance?"

She raises an eyebrow at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

Amon grins. "Proving to you I'm not an oaf."

Akira lets out an exasperated huff, but on a whim, she gives in, carefully taking his hand and allowing him to guide her to the dance floor. Amon rests his hands on her waist (big hands, hands that could break her, hands that never would), his fingertips taut against her hipbones, and she tentatively wraps her arms around his shoulders, feeling the short, sharp bristles at the nape of his neck. He's much too tall, she realizes with a start- tall enough that she has to tilt her head to look him in the eye, tall enough to make her feel small and vulnerable.

"You look beautiful," he tells her.

She glances down at her dress- a plain lilac ensemble she'd picked up yesterday- and shrugs. "It was the one Takizawa liked the least."

Amon looks bemused. "I have to question his tastes."

Akira grimaces when he lurches forward and accidentally trods on her feet. "You know, I'm not particularly convinced. You're not exactly the epitome of grace."

He wets his lips, the overhead lights sending a kaleidoscope of colors glancing off his skin. "Show me, then."

"Dangerous words," she whispers, moving a hand to the small of his back, and in a single motion, dips him till he's nearly touching the floor, so close she can count the flecks of icy blue in his eyes, smell the whiskey on his breath, "Amon-_sama._"

Akira plants a delicate kiss on his chin, and wonders how many ways they'll try not to talk about this tomorrow.

At least she can blame it on the alcohol.

* * *

The second time they get drunk together, her head is reeling and Akira's fucked up again- mouthed off at him when she shouldn't have, when she doesn't really believe it herself, when she doesn't even mean it.

_I'm sorry_, she wants to say, but it comes out in a string of incoherent garbles, words mumbled into his shoulder when he'd helped her home.

She knows he understands, because isn't that what Amon does? He's an expert at picking apart the cynicism from the sincerity, reading between the lines, knowing exactly what she wants even when she's too proud to ask.

Her fucking_ pride_. If she'd been sober, maybe she wouldn't have even let him walk her home. Maybe she wouldn't have been selfish enough to ask him to stay when it's so inappropriate, when it's crossing the line, when it could change everything.

The fact of the matter is, she'd really wanted to touch him. _Really _wanted to touch him.

If she'd kissed him then, pulled him into the sheets with her and whispered sweet nothings into his hollow of his throat, what would he have done?

_I'm so drunk_, she thinks desperately. _This isn't me._

She stares at his retreating back, and knows it's been inevitable the moment she'd watched him put flowers on her father's grave, knows she wishes she could take it all back, knows in heart that it's all a lie.

_What happens when we run out of excuses?_

(The third time never happens, and she's almost foolish enough to regret that.)

* * *

The gash on her leg hurts like a bitch, and she hates herself for relying on him again, for making him put his life on the line for her, but mostly for being relieved when she takes a deep breath and she realizes she's still alive, blessedly alive, the air pumping in and out of her lungs, sensation singing up and down her spine.

_You are such a coward._

Her mother had sacrificed herself to save her team, had been glad to do so, but Akira?

As soon as Naki's fangs had sunken into her leg, her entire life had flashed before her eyes, and she distinctly remembers the taste of fear on her tongue the panic rising in her throat, the impulse to run far away and curl up into a ball and never return.

_I don't want to die, _she remembers thinking.

_You are so pathetic._

Amon lowers her to the ground and eases out of his jacket, biting his lip as he wraps it tight around the wound.

Akira grimaces, pointedly staring at the ground. "You should have left me behind."

"Don't be ridiculous," he replies, and it feels like deja vu. "That's a sick joke."

"It wasn't a joke," she says quietly. "It was my own fault that I messed up. You should've just saved yourself."

"And let someone else die?" Amon snaps. "Is that really what you think of me, Akira?"

"You could've_ died_-"

"And so what if I had?" he retorts. "Akira, if I'd left you behind, I'd never be able to forgive myself- I'd live with it the rest of my life. Even death would be better than that." He reaches up to finger the cross strung around his neck. "Do you know why I became an investigator?"

She shakes her head.

"To make sure I never let another innocent person die when I could've stopped it." His face hardens. "I've made plenty of mistakes, Akira- but I won't let you be one of them. I can't ever leave you behind."

(Too bad it was all a lie. Too bad she was just barely naive enough to believe him.)

* * *

When he places a gentle hand on her mouth, all she sees is pity in his eyes.

Anger, repulsion, loathing- anything would have been preferable to this unbearable sadness, the apology bruised into his knuckles against her lips, and she despises him for it. Despises him for being so soft, for blaming himself, for being stupidly beautiful and perfect and more than she's ever deserved.

_We are going to die tomorrow, and you still don't love me._

But deep inside, it's impossible to blame him.

As if it's his fault for being so strong when she's so weak. As if it's his fault for being a man when all she's ever been is a dreaming girl, always chasing after an impossibility.

* * *

It's not difficult to pretend that Seidou is Amon. That silly boy, turning into a man when she'd least expected it.

When he drops off a stack of files at her desk, she's not quite sure how to thank him, so she pins him against the wall and crushes her lips to his, tearing at his shirt buttons with shaking fingers. "Just for tonight," she murmurs, feeling him shiver as she presses a kiss to his collarbone. "Can we let go just for tonight?"

He nods, she nods, and they don't turn back.

Later that night, when they're lying awake in her bed, Seidou starts crying, and for once, she doesn't tease him mercilessly for it, just clutches him tighter to her and rocks him back and forth.

"I don't want to die," he sobs into her chest. "Oh God, I don't want to-"

_You won't,_ Akira wants so desperately to say, but she knows it's nothing more than an empty promise. _Don't leave me here, please._

It's ridiculous, comforting the guy she'd just had misery sex with, but for him, she's willing to make an exception.

"Shh," Akira whispers, clumsily petting his hair, "_sleep_."

She presses a trembling kiss to his temple, and for once, the imbecile has the sense to listen to her.

* * *

The last time she sees him, he refuses to look at her, and that's what hurts the most.

* * *

"Akira-san, we're out of leads-"

"So look harder!" Akira growls, and slams a fist to her table, sending her cold mug of coffee rattling against the glass. When the third investigator nods hurriedly and rushes away to comply, she exhales shakily, burying her face into her hands.

At least for Seidou, there'd been a body to bury. But Amon-

"Akira-san, I-"

"Can't you see I'm busy right now?" she snarls, but as she glances up, she freezes in place. "Arima-san, I apologize for my-"

He holds a hand up to silence her. "It's quite alright, Akira-san, I understand what you're going through. I just wish you wouldn't work yourself so hard- would it be too much trouble to take a break? You've been here all weekend."

She tears open the next file. "Thank you for your concern, Arima-san, but I can't just give up now. He's all I-"

_He's all I have left._

Akira regains her composure, giving a delicate clearing of her throat. "As I was saying, I feel like we're on the brink of something, so if you'll just give me a moment, I'm sure I can-"

"Enough, Akira-san," Arima says firmly. "I thought you were smarter than that. Don't you when it's time to give up? If we don't find him by tomorrow...he'll officially be declared KIA."

His words are like a punch to the gut.

"If you'd just give me some more time-"

He gives a solemn shake of his head. "CCG procedure. There's nothing I can do about it."

"He risked his life for me so many times, I can't just abandon him now- what if he's still out there, waiting for me to find him? We're so close, Arima-san- please don't pull the plug now," Akira pleads. "You were his friend, weren't you? You knew him, too. How can you be so- be so-"

"Callous?" Arima finishes. "Akira-san, if I went to pieces every time a comrade died, I'd have gone insane a long time. We mourn, we pay our respects, we move on. As members of the CCG, that's just the kind of life we have. That's the kind of life you have to be prepared to accept."

"Amon never did," Akira mumbles. "Amon never-"

"And where is he now?"

Her throat constricts, and it's all she can do to repress her choked-off sob.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I forgot. You're still so young."

She'd felt it, too, the distance between her and Amon. Always young, so unbearably young, the blood gushing through her veins, the pulse between her fingers, the reminder that she's still breathing.

_Just barely._

* * *

Somehow, she finds herself spending inordinate amounts of time with Juuzou. They eat lunch together, and somehow, the silence is enough for them, never feels too heavy or awkward, just right. After she shares his bento with him, helps him stand on his prosthetic leg, they always go visit Shinohara, sit at his bedside and watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"Do you ever wonder why we even bother?" he says suddenly.

"Every day," Akira whispers.

"The people I like, they always have to leave," Juuzou says flatly. "Do you why that is?"

She fights to blink away hot tears, leans over to give his hand a squeeze. "I wish I knew."

* * *

Ken Kaneki is unconscious in the private hospital room, enmeshed in a tangle of tubes and masks and the drip-drip of IV. Ken Kaneki, the ghoul who spared her partner's life.

_Maybe if you'd just killed him_, she thinks,_ this wouldn't have have happened._

If Amon had died then, he might've been just a statistic to her, a glazed pair of eyes in a manila envelope, a scarlet KIA stamp across his name. Maybe then she wouldn't feel so lost, and hopeless, and broken.

She thinks about the other men who died that day, the names she can barely even remember, and knows that if Kaneki had killed him, Amon might have been one of them, forgotten within a week, a month, a year, a gravestone collecting dust in the cemetery, a thank-you-for-your-sacrifice. If Kaneki had just killed him, she wouldn't have to wonder if they've given up too soon.

If Kaneki had just killed him.

_So why didn't you?_

Akira punches the glass wall, heedless of nothing but the rush of anger inside her, the tidal wave of grief. "_This _is what Amon and Takizawa died for?"

"Be reasonable, Akira-san," Arima chides. "Your friends sacrificed themselves for a noble cause. Kaneki here- if we use him right, he could be an invincible weapon. He could change everything."

"He's a boy," she whispers, "just a boy."

Arima ignores her, the perfect image of steely calm. "You understand, don't you, Akira-san? If we keep going like this, nothing will change. Certainly, we're capable of keeping up with the ghouls, but just barely. Hell, it takes the sacrifice of five of our men to bring down just one, sometimes- you know we can't continue like this.

"Kaneki Ken is half human, half ghoul. Do you realize how valuable that is? A ghoul's power, but a human's allegiance- imagine what that could accomplish!" There's a manic glint in his eyes. "Our quinques hold up well, but compared to a living, breathing organ, we're nothing. But if we have Kaneki...can't you picture the possibilities?"

Akira squeezes her eyes shut. "You want us to fight with a monster?"

"Yes, but first, we make him into one of us," Arima replies coolly. "We'll erase his memories, of course, and give him an alias, get him onto our side and on a team of people just like him. Four promising young investigators are going through an experimental operation as we speak."

Akira feels sick to her stomach. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to be their leader," he says. "Akira-san, I need people like you, people who are willing to do anything to eliminate ghouls from this world. Your parents, your partner, they've taken so much from you- don't you want to fight back?"

As hard as her life's been the past few months, she can't bring herself to feel anything but empty, anything but numb.

"No, I can't," she says thickly. "Kaneki-"

"-is our last hope," Arima finishes. "Takizawa and Amon died for a reason, and I want to make that count. Please, Akira-san- help me make their sacrifice meaningful. Don't let them have died in vain."

Akira spreads her fingers across the glass, watches the twitch of lips, the ruffle of his snow white hair. She thinks about Amon and the traces of himself he left behind, from the whiff of cologne in her pillow to the desk besides by hers, the bits of him that fade from her every day (what had his smile been like, exactly? his face? the deep, throaty rumble of his voice?), the barest fragments she struggles to hold onto. She imagines Kaneki filling that empty space inside of her she hadn't known even existed, imagines spending the rest of her life with him, working side by side and always remembering what could have been.

She gives a terse nod.

* * *

Amon's grave is a squat black stone near her father's.

Akira takes a deep breath and lays a bouquet of carnations on top of it. "Hi. Here we go again, right? I can't believe it's already been two years.

"When I first met you, I wanted to be strong, no matter the cost. I wanted to be strong like you without getting attached to anyone, because that just made you weak. Vulnerable. But then, I realized something: you were strong _because_ you cared. _Because_ you held people so close to you and didn't let them go.

"I've decided something, Amon: it's okay to be soft. Because if you stop caring, what are you? If I die tomorrow, I want to die knowing that I did my best to protect my team. And if they die, I want them to know that even if they're gone, I'll always think of them, because I can't just forget. I can't just let myself get over it- God knows that isn't what happened with you. I have to fight back, twice as hard, because if I don't...I won't know who I am anymore."

Akira exhales shakily. "Even if you think I'm weak...I hope you'll accept it. Because this is the path I've chosen. Will you support me, Amon? Will you see me through?"

There's no reply, of course- but she thinks she knows the answer.


End file.
